On the empty road again

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“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious”



Carl Jung



Waking up to a blue sky in the midst of the monsoon season said only one thing to me: “Its time to hop on that bike and go, Paul”. I had just spent 16 days in Bhubaneswar, the place I had lived and worked for 14 months in 2010/ 2011. Most of this time was spent in the laborious task of getting Gladys the wonder bike back in tip top shape. That had pretty much been achieved now, at vast expense.

As I do (I am just like that!), I packed to a pre-thought plan that had been forming over many months and weeks. Even as I thought about what it all back in Australia, in the back of my head were images of how I would pack Gladys on this new journey. I smiled as it all came to pass – everything in its place, everything fitting just so. As Carolina would say, everything has to be just “tick tack” with me (something she both admired as well as it driving her nuts!). Its this spectrum thing, what can I say?

I had also dreaded the thought, and worried as I do, about the prospect of this first leg of the journey 'riding out into the monsoon', into the unknown (well not completely, I had ridden this path in reverse just 20 months ago, albeit I wanted to try for a route with better roads this time). But the thought of riding in drenching rain, and then coming across (as you invariably do) pot-holed muddy quagmires of things that are dared to be called roads, was setting up a real challenge and even fear in my mind.

So setting out in sunshine was pure blessing! And it persisted. In fact to jump ahead a bit, I did not get rained on for the entire 1,000 kms to Varanasi. I saw plenty of dark clouds in the distance, and somehow seemed to skirt around patches of rain, and even rode on roads that minutes before had been drenched. Am I blessed or what? Note to self: Don't go too far with this blessed stuff Paul, it will bite you back sure!

Info for riders: The road from Bhubaneswar to Balasore (about 100 kms more or less) was great – four lane national highway without much of a glitch. I pulled into a side village after an hour for a light breakfast and felt like a Martian descending in his space ship from the reaction of the locals. Highway 33 to Ranchi was half OK and half absolute shit! Potholes every second metre and dust and trucks (and it was the heat of the day – but hey, no rain!) - so that was hard going. Continuing the next day from Ranchi, the road to the Great Trunk Road (still highway 33) was pretty good and nice (some great winding four lanes through hills to boot. And then the Great Trunk Road to Varanasi was just easy (being national highway 1 and the pride and joy of Indian roads). If I had had cruise control on Gladys for this bit, I could have gone to sleep. Come to think of it, I nearly did go to sleep. So I stopped at one of those concrete bus shelters and had one of my power naps on the concrete bench.

There is a Hindi word “kudrat” (sp?) which means 'given from god' or something similar. I learnt it in 1982 in Pushkar, Rajasthan. I had been living in that place for about 3 months and there were rampant (and probably rabid) packs of dogs that prowled the streets at night. You had to have a stick and threaten to use it, or they would attack you. But Pushkar is a lake oasis in the desert and sticks are very hard to come by. Swimming in the lake one day (as you did back then) I chanced upon a floating stick. I grabbed it, polished it, carved an OM on it – and it still hangs in my Australian home as a hanger for a Buddha batik. I do digress, but the locals told me that finding this stick was pure “kudrat”.

So I am riding into Barapida (about half way between Balasore and Ranchi on day one) and all of a sudden my speedo fails. Shit! I really need that to judge distances and fuel use etc. And I think 'just my luck, and where am I going to find a bloody place to get this fixed?' About 100 meters up the road I hit a round about to take me out of town and voila – there on the corner is the Barapida Royal Enfield dealer – one of the new modern flash places that have sprung up all over India as part of the Enfield renaissance that is happening in this country. Pure kudrat! In about 40 minutes I have my speedo cable and wheel reader replaced for a grand total of 420 rupees (A$8). All while I sit inside a modern air conditioned show room eyeing off the new bikes on display.

Thoughts and more thoughts – riding alone is a mind trip. Many things, many memories, many monkeys playing in my mind. And now and again I reach back to touch a knee that is not there behind me. Emptiness and illusion. The void. It is what it is.

Each time I shout “you fucking idiot” to some crazy driver who has performed a death defying overtake or come at me by driving up the wrong side of the road (as they do – and this is a bit terrifying when its a large truck and you have just pulled into that lane to pass another truck!!!), I check myself: “Now Paul, lets settle that down and let's not get angry – lets see if you can stop these reactions and just remain calm”. But each time I react again – its like this pent up 'thing' that emerges from within, an uncontrolled outpouring of anger and disdain. It is what it is. Observe, accept it and let it go.

Riding into Ranchi (and its gotten dark now) I wonder about where I am going to find a decent place to stay. Almost as soon as I hit the middle of town, there is the 'Midtown Hotel' staring at me. I pull into this neat little bike parking area out the front, the guy in the front shop assures me I am at the right place (its almost as if he were expecting me) and ushers me down the lane to the Reception. There I find a delightful young Sikh with his father in the background, who is obviously delighted to have this foreigner here. I am shown a very passable non A/C (my choice – give me a fan anyday over air conditioning) attached bathroom suite for 540 rupees. I unpack, have a fantastic shower to clean off the grime and tiredness, wander downstairs and order a fabulous Jeera Rice and Molai Kofta, chat with the staff (I am after all the only customer at this time of the evening), arrange with said young Sikh to gain free access to a large A/C deluxe room in the morning so that I can do my hatha yoga, and then retire for a pretty good night's sleep. All is well – I feel in control of my stuff!

Next morning: Its India Independence Day – I pack and set off for Varanasi. First I buy an Indian flag and attach it at the back of Gladys. Just about every vehicle has one or two, and here is yet another small business annual windfall for those across the country who have been making these flags for weeks leading up to August 15 so as to sell them to proud Indians at 10 rupees each.

50 kms up the road, its puri and sabje (fried breads with vegetable curry) for breakfast rounded off with some sweet dahi (curd) and a chai. 24 rupees.

On the Great Trunk Road, there are ghosts that haunt my thoughts as I think how this was the very route taken by the revenging English army after what they called 'The Mutiny” in 1853 and what Indians called their uprising for independence. On their long march to Delhi (which they proceeded to level after massacring and driving out the entire population), they indiscriminately shot and hung people they came across along the route, without question or due process of law.

As I approach Varanasi I can feel the excitement mount – I start to think of the friends I am going to re-meet, of the delights of the place I am going to re-experience, and of the newness of coming back here for the first time during monsoon (the expectation about the swollen Ganga). When I finally hit the bridge across the Ganga, my heart soars and I shout out to myself. I see how huge mother Ganga is – and all the fields on her banks are flooded. I can't take the usual side track into the old city as its all flooded. I find a goat track which the locals assure me will take me straight to Assi (where I have booked a Guest House the night before on the smart phone – amazing modern technology). But when I wind through the approach to the place, the lane is flooded with putrid smelling water and I retreat. I remember a place I had checked out 20 months before as a potential for parking Glady safely in the yard – only I can't remember the name and only vaguely remember where it is. But I do OK – I am bit like the kid in that book 'The case of the dog in the night' (or similar?) and do this internal mapping strategy and find the place. Its great – large room, clean (!), and high and dry with Gladys safe inside the gate. 300 rupees a night (I didn't haggle – could have been less being the off-season).

I feel like I have arrived home. I am not tired – despite just having ridden almost 1,000 kms in two days (no mean feat on Indian roads – although my record is 1,400 kms in just two days – Bhubaneswar to Mahabalipuram – but I had a big motivation on that occasion!). I wash and head off towards the main ghat (but the ghats are all flooded – its amazing). I walk the back lanes and meet at least half a dozen 'friends' and am invited for as many chais and chats. Its lovely. I love this place.

There is an emptiness none-the-less. Last times here I was not alone. Memories flood. Another kind of flood.

The next day I do my ritual 'thing' with a swim in the Ganga – I find this lovely little shanti place called Lalita Ghat – just me and a newfound friend Gopal (whose age I happen to correctly guess as 59 which chufs him no end). We chat about our children and lives and do some power swimming on a short course between the shore and a light pole (which is, as with everything else, submerged by about 10 metres). The current is strong – very strong – and comes in surges – all the way from the Himalaya. Pure Shakti. It feels great! Even the sun is out (rare at this time of year). Blissful Mother Ganga!

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